The Scandal of the Season

by Sophie Gee

  Her heart beat quickly again, but she answered him steadily, “You do everything in your power to take care of us, Alexander.”

  “There is yet more that I could do,” he said urgently. “I could offer you a home. I could promise that you would come to London enough even for your taste. I could make your life easy and Patty’s secure.”

  Not meeting his eye, Teresa said, “And how would you bring these miracles about?”

  She prayed that he would not say anything he would regret.

  “By declaring myself sincerely as your lover,” he burst out, “and making you an offer of marriage.”

  She could not bring herself to look at him, but, prodding at the gravel path with the toe of her shoe, she said quietly, “Then I was quite right to say that a miracle would be required.”

  He looked at her, aghast. “Do you doubt my sincerity?” he asked.

  “Not at all,” she replied. “But I am somewhat skeptical of your abilities as a lover.” In her nervousness she giggled a little.

  Alexander pressed on. “Then you doubt every part of my being,” he cried, “for you have only ever known me as one who loved you.”

  Because she knew that it was true, it made her angry. “Had I not known you many years,” she said coldly, “I would take your last remark for an affront. If I had ever suspected your intentions, I should certainly not have permitted the attentions you bestowed.”

  At last he stopped being gallant. Looking directly at her, he said harshly, “Teresa, do not insult me by pretending not to have understood me.”

  She looked around, not knowing how to respond. His foolish intensity made her more angry. “Pray, sir,” she answered, “do not insult me by suggesting that there is anything like an understanding between us.”

  “Insult you?” he said, incredulous. “You call me presumptuous for singling you out as the loveliest woman I have known?”

  Unable to control her feelings of vexation, she returned, “It is a distinction that I had rather you had not thrust upon me. I came to London without any thoughts of attachment—entirely free to choose—to be chosen. I considered myself a woman without obligation, and I assumed that this was the light in which I was generally regarded.”

  He stared at her, incomprehension stamped across his face. It merely goaded her on.

  “But now I learn that you have marked me out as your own,” she said, feeling a sob rising in her throat. “Perhaps you have even boasted of it to others—and put it about town that I am already attached. Am I to understand that you have presumed to speak as my champion, though I have never permitted it?” She knew now that there was nothing true in what she said, but she went on regardless. “I have never given you the slightest encouragement. I loathe the merest idea of an arrangement, an attachment, being formed to a person who—with…”

  His face was quite still as he finished, “With me is what I believe that you are saying.”

  This roused in her a fury of self-reproach. “You think me cruel, unthinking, selfish—a thousand things—I know.” She broke off; she must hold her tongue, she must not bring Martha into it, but it was too late. “Why do not you marry Martha?” she cried desperately. “You would do well with her. But do not blight my chances by appointing yourself as my lover, least of all when we are among such acquaintance as these.”

  “You are referring, I assume, to Lord Petre,” he answered. “You are a fool if you do not see that he would hold a women such as you in contempt.” He paused and weighed his words. Even now he was generous. “Not because you are contemptible, Teresa, but because he is,” he added.

  “He! How dare you presume to know what he, or any other gentleman, thinks or feels about me,” she stormed. “You know nothing of men or of the world. You are a cripple, as small in thought as in stature! You see nothing, you hear nothing, Alexander, but what is lowest to the ground.”

  He stepped back with a look of disbelief. “Then you cannot blame me, madam, for having paid such long and devoted attentions to your person.”

  They had nearly reached Martha and Jervas, and Alexander saw that they had been overheard. Already the pair were standing to meet them, Jervas’s legs braced awkwardly to confront him, Martha white with anxiety. The four of them stood for several moments in ghastly silence.

  Martha finally spoke, ending the pause.

  “The sun has tired me and the glare has given me a headache,” she said. “Mr. Jervas has been sitting with me so kindly, but I must go home.”

  “We have already been here far longer than we ought,” Teresa added brusquely. “Give me your arm, Patty—let us hurry to the carriage.”

  “I shall accompany you,” said Jervas, before Alexander could speak.

  But Teresa replied curtly, “We prefer to walk alone.” And she pulled her sister forward without another word. Alexander held Jervas back, letting them go on.

  Anger, misery, and disappointment were the prevailing emotions of the afternoon. Alexander was not prepared for such bitter sensations, largely because he had not prepared himself for the conversation at all. He knew perfectly well that Teresa had no wish to hear his avowals. He had not even meant to make them. Only a short time before, he had been thinking that she occupied less of his attention than in the past—what had made him declare himself now? He had thought that she would refuse him, and indeed, had she accepted the offer, he believed that his feelings would have been divided. Some strange, perverse vanity had led him on, a contrary sort of pride. Just as he felt his fatal weakness for Teresa abating, he had been tempted into declarations from which the former intensity of his feeling had hitherto made him shrink.

  And he had been punished for it. The cruelty of her response! It was as though she hated him—and yet he did not think that it was hate she felt—how could it be? There must be some part of her that responded in kind to his affection. But there would be no more of such thoughts. He would not ask himself, over and over, whether she loved him. She would not marry him. He had seen her cruel, cold, selfish, angry. He could not continue to admire her. He, too, must be cold.

  Teresa had never imagined that sorrow would figure in the aftermath of a proposal from Alexander, but now she, too, felt its thorn. The feeling surprised her. She was sorry that Alexander had spoken and that there had been such a scene. She wished that she had not become so angry; she wished that she had not been driven to say things that she did not really believe. But she would not take back what she had said, and run the risk of opening the discussion again. She was sad, she was vexed—but she would not feel regret.

  And yet despite all this, she was disappointed that his declaration was over. She had long planned that if Alexander should ever propose she would refuse him. But the knowledge that he admired her had been a precious consolation—even if it was one that she never admitted. Now that her refusal had been given, she was left with the fact that it was the only offer she had received. Natural, then, that Alexander, who had forced so unwelcome a reflection upon her, should become even more markedly the object of her resentment.

  A week passed without contact between Alexander and the Blount sisters. During this period a considerable share of unhappiness fell to Martha, who had no feelings of indignation to modify her lowness. She was cut off from her two dearest friends, neither of whom made any attempt to draw her into their confidence. Since she did not understand precisely what had happened, she feared the worst: that Teresa and Alexander would refuse ever to be in the same room again, and that she would be forced to choose between them.

  As Martha sat alone in her room thinking over the sad state of affairs, she sighed bitterly. There would be no real choice, of course. She would have to take her sister’s part. Why must it always be thus—would there never be a moment in her life when she could do, or even speak, as she truly felt? Although she was angry with Teresa for having spoken harshly to Alexander, she was conscious, too, of a secret pleasure. No longer could he persuade himself that Teresa was the superior sister. In the fa
ce of such bitterness, such selfishness, Alexander must see Teresa clearly at last. Wretched, perhaps—deserving of sympathy and care—but willfully cruel to the people who loved her most.

  In thinking about Alexander’s part in the crisis, Martha surprised herself. She found that she resented him, too. Had he given any thought to it, he must have known that a breach between himself and Teresa would also end his friendship with Martha. And yet he had not thought of that at all, obviously. In the past, it would have caused her unspeakable hurt. But now she was angry. However clever he might be, Alexander had behaved like a fool.

  At nine o’clock on the night of the picnic, Lord Petre went to meet James Douglass in the Pen and Hand. The tavern was on a dark and dirty street in Shoreditch, some distance from where Jenkins had left him in the carriage.

  “What possessed you to bring me into this part of town?” Lord Petre demanded. He couldn’t help but be apprehensive as he walked along the desolate streets, fearing that someone might be watching him from the alleyways.

  “Your fellow papists say Mass in this garret after dark. I am surprised you do not know it, my lord.”

  “Catholics of quality do not come here to pray,” he replied. “They would likely be knifed to death. You should not have asked me here.”

  “I am to meet an agent later.”

  Lord Petre said nothing.

  “In seven or eight days’ time four of our men will enter London from the north,” Douglass said in a low tone. “A fifth will come by water, alone. He will be at your house between two and three o’clock in the morning. Can you be ready?”

  Lord Petre leapt to attention, forgetting his anger. “I can,” he answered.

  “The agent will be carrying documents from France,” said Douglass. “You are to offer protection for two days until he sails again.”

  “I cannot keep him in my family’s house, but my servant will take him to a safe place.”

  Douglass nodded briefly. “And the other matter?” he asked in a lower voice.

  Lord Petre took a packet from his coat and handed it across. It contained three hundred pounds. Douglass looked around the room quickly, and shoved the package into his surtout.

  “I must tell you to take care with those, Douglass,” said Lord Petre. “You know that traitors have been discovered among us.”

  “Have your rich friends been filling your head with rumors again, my lord?” Douglass asked mockingly.

  Lord Petre knew that this indifference was pretended. When he had told Douglass the news about Francis Gerrard’s murder, months ago now, Douglass had gone white.

  “Traitors in our ranks!” Lord Petre recalled him saying. “Gerrard must have told Caryll before he died.”

  “Not directly,” Lord Petre had corrected him. “He told one of the leaders. That night, at the embassy.” He remembered Douglass’s aghast expression clearly.

  But today he took Lord Petre’s caution lightly. “Gerrard was killed months ago,” Douglass said. “Nothing has happened since. Your friend Caryll got his story wrong. We have nothing to fear from traitors.”

  Lord Petre pushed his chair away from the table, angry again. “I am certain that Caryll was not mistaken,” he hissed. Douglass could be as careless of his own safety as he pleased, but the money was Lord Petre’s. He was determined they would not lose it.

  “Steady there, my lord,” Douglass urged him in a low voice, glancing around the room. “Remember where you are. I am sorry to have baited you just now,” he added, as Lord Petre composed himself. “As you say, Caryll’s word is sound, and your connections are indispensable. We could not go forward without you.”

  Mollified, Lord Petre reached out to shake Douglass by the hand before he left the tavern.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Clubs, Diamonds, Hearts, in wild disorder seen”

  Henrietta Oldmixon had planned an evening gathering with dancing, cards, and supper. Oldmixon parties were famous: the year before they had given a Roman banquet, where the guests dressed as senators and emperors and reclined on low couches to dine. In the winter Henrietta had arranged a medieval feast at which a flock of starlings was released from a pie just when supper was served, and acrobats and jugglers played tricks among the dancing couples. This assembly, held nine days after Lord Petre’s picnic in Hyde Park, was to be a masquerade. But since all her guests would be known to one another, the caution that accompanied encounters at the public masquerade could be suspended.

  Arabella Fermor was to be the guest of honor, the newest addition to the charmed group of Henrietta’s friends. The town’s wits and intellects had been summoned for the occasion, Charles Jervas and Alexander Pope among them. The Blount sisters were invited because of their relation to Arabella.

  Before the picnic Teresa and Martha had been looking forward to Henrietta’s party a good deal. But Alexander’s unwanted declaration, Lord Petre’s attentions to Arabella, and Teresa’s discovery of her cousin’s fashionable new friendships meant that both girls were now preparing for it with more dread than eagerness. They would go, nonetheless; it was unthinkable that they would miss such an occasion. Jervas’s carriage collected them shortly before nine on the night of the party. Arabella had not offered to drive them. The coach ride with Jervas and Alexander was awkward, and even Martha, who generally tried to smooth over such moments, sat proudly silent.

  Since it was a private party the guests wore evening dress rather than full masquerade costume. Teresa and Martha were each dressed in a silk brocade gown with Venetian masks over their faces, and when they arrived at the house they found that others had done the same. Some of the masks were elaborate: animals and carnival figures; ornate jewels and feathered headdresses. Three of the guests, however, wore full disguise—the plumage of birds—a falcon, a peacock, and a swan. Their costumes were magnificent, all the more so because they did not, in fact, conceal the identities of the wearers. It was apparent that Henrietta Oldmixon was the falcon and Lady Salisbury the peacock; the swan, needless to say, was Arabella.

  For each of the three nights before Henrietta’s party Lord Petre stood for many hours in the dark stable yard of his house on Arlington Street, waiting for the agent to come. But he did not appear, and there was no news of arrests, or any other signal that something in the plan had gone awry. Lord Petre was sure, therefore, that he must keep waiting. But he was growing tired of these lonely vigils, and he longed to see Arabella again, so he decided to go to the Oldmixon party, and return home just after midnight. He would give the appearance of going to bed, as he had done on the other nights, and would then sneak down to wait for his night visitor. When their business was accomplished, Petre planned to have Jenkins take the agent away to his own family’s house—loyal Catholics as the Jenkinses were, Lord Petre knew that they could be trusted.

  When all Henrietta’s guests had assembled, a stand of fireworks was let off from the yard below, and the maskers crowded into the front rooms to watch. As the display came to an end, Teresa discovered that Arabella had come to stand beside her, and in a moment they were joined by Henrietta.

  “You know Miss Oldmixon, of course,” Arabella said to Teresa.

  Teresa was surprised when Henrietta greeted her warmly. Until now she had not even bothered to acknowledge Miss Blount as an acquaintance.

  “This is a charming gathering, Miss Oldmixon,” Teresa replied in a determined effort to imitate her companions’ insouciance.

  “I am glad that you are come,” said Henrietta. “I hope that you and your sister will be diverted. Did I not see you both the other day at my Lord Petre’s pleasure party in the park? I did not know you were acquainted with him.”

  “He is a friend of the family. Our brother is often at Ingatestone,” Teresa replied untruthfully, but she was pleased that Henrietta smiled by way of reply.

  “I don’t suppose that anybody was long in the park after Lord Petre and I were gone,” Arabella said. “Oh—but you were attended by Mr. Pope and Mr. Jervas, Teresa
. Perhaps you remained behind.”

  Before Teresa could answer, Henrietta interrupted. “Well, I must say, Arabella, that you were gone from the party pretty hastily,” she said. “And when you are seen to act with eagerness, we must conclude that alacrity is now the fashion, and that indifference is a habit of the past. Do you know your cousin’s reputation for being more fashionable than any other girl in London, Miss Blount?”

  Teresa was sure that she heard a note of sarcasm in Henrietta’s voice, and she echoed it in her own reply. “Arabella’s reputation is well known,” she said. “We hear of it even in the country.”

  Arabella turned away from them with a look of unmistakable irritation and a reproachful glance at Henrietta as she went. Teresa was surprised again. How gratifying it was to discover that the jealousy she felt toward Arabella existed also within the charmed circle of London’s belles. She began a more confident circuit of the room, feeling that her fortunes had improved. Lord Petre, standing to one side of the gathering wearing a mask and a cockaded hat over his long curls, no longer seemed a figure whom she would pass by bashfully. She might even smile to think of his weakness for Arabella, since it appeared to have won her cousin fewer friends than it had at first appeared.

  She walked up to Martha, intending to make up for some of her recent thoughtlessness. But Martha, accustomed to Teresa’s approaching only when she was in need of reassurance, said, “Did Henrietta Oldmixon say something unkind to you?”

  “Certainly not!” said Teresa. “You need not be concerned for me, Patty.”

  “Oh, I know that,” Martha replied, quickly recognizing her sister’s mood. “I am only passing by on my way to the supper room. Will you accompany me?”

  “If you would like me to,” said Teresa, pleased, in truth, that Martha was there. They left the assembly room to cross the entrance hall. As they did, Martha caught sight of a swan’s plumage disappearing rapidly up the stairs. Her eyes followed its progress, and Teresa saw it, too. There was a short silence between them.